


Good Omens Deutschland

by fathand



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Historical References, M/M, Sort Of, but the first three chapters can be read as their own story, the last chapter is basically just the condensed end of where the story would have gone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26503075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fathand/pseuds/fathand
Summary: 1946 - 1989.Berlin, during the Cold War.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 5





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> On 17th September 2019 - a year ago today as I post this whole thing at 01:30 - I decided I wanted to write a historical GO fic. After deliberating on what time period I knew anywhere near enough about, I settled on Cold War Berlin (thanks to GCSE history). I liked the wall metaphor and the divide and the complications of whether angel or demon would align with east or west and I liked how you could explore either. I did a LOT of research, used up all my free JSTOR articles for about three months, and finished a 6,000 plan for what I assumed would be around 20k once fully fleshed out. There will still be a multitude of historical inaccuracies, but I tried my best. 
> 
> In April 2020, I 'quit' fandom, deleted my tumblr and decided to stop reading fic. Don't ask why.
> 
> Now, on the anniversary of when I first started this story, I'm posting it, unfinished and forever so. The first three chapters are chapters that _are_ finished and edited. The final chapter (nearly half of the overall wordcount) is the plan for what I would have written: chunks of prose and sections of dialogue, stiched together with a skeleton of what I would have expanded on. (I still think it reads quite well though. Lol.)
> 
> The WIP title was 'Good Omens Deutschland' for obvious reasons. I always found it funny though. I admitted to writing fic to a lot of my mates at school because of this story in particular. I was met with far more support than I thought I would have. Moony and Padfoot, as always, read any scenes I sent them, but even those who hadn't read/seen Good Omens and had never read, let alone written, fanfic, expressed enthusiasm and said they would read it if I ever finished. (I have a habit of never finishing. Evidently.)
> 
> 'Good Omens Deutschland' became something I could just _say_ and my friends would understand. It sounds stupid, but it became code for essentially the longest thing I had ever written and my passion project that was nearly all I could think about for months. So I kept the name, though I never planned to.
> 
> In seventeen days, I will be starting university. I need to post this to move on.
> 
> Enjoy.

> “Walls protect and walls limit. It is in the nature of walls that they should fall. That walls should fall is the consequence of blowing your own trumpet.”

\- Jeanette Winterson, _Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit_

**1946, somewhere in West Berlin**

At the end of the war, Crowley grabbed hold of time, shook it fiercely and then, from its quaking breath, he pulled out a Beginning. A new Beginning, one of light feet and quick tongues and a quiet distance to keep his sanity. It’s been less than a year since then but the Beginning has settled around him like dust in a second-hand bookshop. (Notice the lack of the definite article - just any old bookshop really, take your pick. As long as the tomes are old and the air is thick and the smell is musty, it’ll do.) He likes the taste of this Beginning, the briny slosh of it against the back of his throat and the subtle aftertaste, like the copper of an oyster. It’s unpleasant in a way he’s gotten used to but with each day a sweetness lingers, the flavour getting brighter and warmer with every eagle brought down from the heavens, the flags lowered closer to hell. ( _Where they belong_ , he thinks, and it’s the holiest thought he’s had in a long time.) His rooms are small but comfortable, with a fridge (unused); an oven (unused); and a double bed with starchy sheets and an overly-soft pillow (used far too often for the optimism of this new Beginning). 

So, on a Tuesday afternoon in early summer, he leaves his apartment and heads out into the city that rises around him, rebuilding itself from the ashes. As he happens upon a square, bordered by a partly demolished church, the _real_ Beginning opens up before him like a plant unfurling its leaves in search of sunlight.

Men and women call out to each other, shifting debris and broken furniture from the ruins around them. The cobbled stones are mostly intact but a large fountain lies shattered in the middle of the square. It’s sunken into the ground, perhaps the initial design, but now it just looks depressing, great chunks cracked and crumbling as the concrete glitters lamely, dusted in glass. Yet the scene around it is promising, the impromptu workers sweating gracefully and smiling despite the task. 

“Anja!” A young woman calls out and Crowley isn’t sure where the noise came from or who she is addressing, but it doesn’t seem to matter: the team work so seamlessly, chugging along at a steady pace as laughter presses tickling fingers up through the church’s tipping spire and into the sky. 

And in amongst the gorgeous mess stumbles a head of bright curls, laughter peeling from those lips too, somehow still so prim and proper as he helps push a piano away from the middle of the road and into the shadow of the church.

Crowley’s first reaction is to hiss, hide his face, turn and flee. Something slightly wanting stills his anxious feet, curls up the legs of his slacks and glues him to the pavement, but then he picks up a (metaphorical) solvent and ditches any last shred of self respect he ever owned and saunters over to the angel. He attempts to put on an air that says _oh, you in Berlin too?_ , a sort of vague _this doesn’t shock me at all, seeing you here with gold just spilling out your mouth and into these people’s lives, leaving them all the richer for it_. 

All he says is: “Aziraphale.”

What actually shocks him is the normality of it. Aziraphale turns, still chuckling so kindly, and simply smiles brighter when he spots Crowley, a looming shadow behind him. He sticks out like a sore thumb, all bleak and black amongst the buttercup-yellow of the square; Aziraphale, nevertheless, does not seem fazed and scrunches up his nose in delight. (Crowley’s entire being quivers a bit, aching slightly at that. He ignores it.)

“Crowley!” And there’s much more enthusiasm in it than Crowley’s own limp address. “Well, well! What are you doing in Berlin?”

“Oh, you know,” Crowley says, trying for nonchalance but still moving closer to this brilliant pillar of warmth, “this and that. You know me. What about you, angel? Helping the reconstruction, I see? Plenty of that in London. Thought you were all cosied up in your bookshop with your, uh, books… and such.”

Aziraphale ruffles slightly at this, like Crowley’s touched a nerve. It excites him immensely.

“Oh, _dead on_ ,” he says, teeth gleaming and eyes alight behind his glasses. Teasing has always been his favourite game. “Left behind the city for a holiday, have we? Neglecting your angelic duties or what? Those books finally getting you down, eh, the dust getting a bit too much?” 

It only occurs to him after the angel’s turned his back that perhaps Crowley’s pride might not have been the only casualty shared between them, that something else might’ve been lost in that bloody war. (1941 and its burnt soles and brushing fingers and awkward car rides in the sudden rain: what a mess.)

“Oh,” Crowley says, eloquently. “Oh. The bookshop. Aziraphale, I didn’t think…”

“No, no! It’s not that, no… the books are all quite fine. Don’t worry yourself about that, really.” Aziraphale is facing him, bashful now, a light dusting of red along his cheeks and nose. A bee lands in his hair and he doesn’t notice. “I- well, I miss London. But I’m wanted here, you see; I’ve just got settled over in East Berlin. Arrived but a few months ago.”

Crowley barks out a laugh.

“East Germany? Really?”

“Is it such a surprise?” He really does seem quite offended.

“The food is fucking abysmal, Aziraphale.” Crowley says, but his tone spins softer, velvet on his lips. The bee flies off. “How are you even surviving?”

“I enjoy bringing communities together, dear boy; and besides, it’s not as if London is yielding a great deal of delicacies at the moment either.” Aziraphale lets out a quiet sigh and Crowley _knows_ \- pure instinct like when you’ve popped to the loo and you can practically feel the kettle boil even though you can’t hear it - Crowley knows Aziraphale is off somewhere in his mind’s eye, enjoying the past in the one way he knows how (other than reading, that is). Honeyed dormice in Gaul or Rome; hotteok, nutty and sweet, on the streets of Seoul; or maybe just a scone, fresh and thick with clotted cream, Earl Grey with a slice of lemon in fine china. Aziraphale looks far away and forlorn, but he soon comes back to himself. (Squash those feelings, kill the want. There’s a good angel.) “No, I’m quite fine as it is.”

Crowley aims his best _I totally believe you face_ , doubt seeping out from beneath his glasses and inching up to cover the lenses.

“No, really. Upstairs organised the whole thing, wanted me to keep an eye on Germany after all the trouble that erupted last time. They’ve given me rooms and a job in the local council though I don’t suppose they notice that I never file any reports. Or do any sort of record-keeping at all. I’m quite certain they haven’t any clue what my job is and, in all honesty, I’m not so sure I do either.”

Crowley circles Aziraphale, quietly revelling in how he turns to keep Crowley in his sight, watching and waiting (or perhaps simply looking for the sake of looking). When he reaches the piano, cloaked in the dark of the church, Crowley drags two fingers through the dust on the lid. Gravelly and grey coating the chestnut grain. He glances over his shoulder at Aziraphale (eyes wide, transfixed), raises his hand, pointed up like a pistol. Blows the dust away.

Both angel and demon crack a smile. Aziraphale glances at his shoes.

“A-and you, Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing in Berlin? You didn’t exactly answer my question before, you see.” He meets Crowley’s eyes with something lurking in the arch of his brow. “I’m _awfully_ curious.”

And, well, that’s just his weakness, isn’t it?

“I just wanted a bloody break.”

“And a break for you is the aftermath of a war?”

“I was up in the mountains for a while, then down in the valley. Didn’t want to be too far from the action.” Crowley turns around and leans against the piano, palms face down in the dust to support his weight. He’s lounging, really. “But then I got terribly bored of all the sheep and rolling hills. Came to the city for some chaos.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale chirps, and moves closer. “I don’t know what else I expected. We always seem to end up in the same place eventually.”

Crowley swallows, something small and fluttery tickling the back of his throat. He keeps his jaw clenched, not sure if a laugh or sob will make its way out if he dares open his mouth. He pushes off the piano, dust falling gently to the ground like snowfall, and opens the lid. One hand reaches out to test a few of the keys, an awful sound ringing flat and unpleasant in the square.

Aziraphale coughs discreetly, coming up behind Crowley, and the piano creaks, hammers and string and wood shifting into place. 

“That should do it,” he says, quietly, breath hot against the shell of Crowley’s ear.

Crowley tests the keys again, laughing to himself as the ivory sing-songs in tune and Aziraphale smiles with his eyes. The fondness there is a little stifling, white downy feathers wrapped in soft linen and pressed against his face: Aziraphale takes his breath away.

Hurriedly, Crowley taps out a tune, focusing on the round pearls of the notes, his skinny fingers against the white like bone on bone. He smirks to himself, his improvisation shifting into _Für Elise_. As expected, the angel huffs out a disapproval.

“For Heaven’s sake, Crowley,” he says and rests a hand on his arm to still him.

“Alright then, angel.” Crowley steps back, out of his touch. He gives a sweeping gesture, glasses flashing in the afternoon light. “Your turn.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes, then straightens out his cuffs and begins to play.

Contrary to popular belief, angels aren’t usually very skilled musicians. Their vocals are something else, yes, alluring and innocent all at once, paper-thin and liquid smooth. Slick as oil, a dazzle of fractured colours positively glistening. Yet few angels tend to pick up an instrument: most rely on lyres and harps as accompaniment, divinely coaxed into eliciting a melody with no physical manipulation. Aziraphale, however, is unlike most angels. In the 19th century, in the midst of a large burst of discoveries, he decided to learn the piano, taught himself the secrets of majors and minors, tucked away at the back of his shop. His talent is average at best, but he’s had quite a while to practice, and, on this already angelically altered instrument, the rise and fall croons shyly in Crowley’s chest.

He starts self-consciously, a low murmur, deep notes soon contrasting with a sweet and slow answer. Aziraphale’s staring at his hands, movements almost clumsy at first, but then flexing and finding their rhythm. Crowley watches the light turn his eyelashes amber.

Aziraphale pauses, on the precipice of something, dangling in front of him and begging to be caught. Crowley hears him shudder, air caught somewhere in Aziraphale’s windpipe, but Crowley feels it in his own. Then a surge, joyous and loud, a crash of ecstasy as Aziraphale cracks, glorious. Crowley averts his gaze, the clamour of tinkling notes prodding something raw and tender behind his heart. 

Around them, people have stopped working, basking in the bliss of the dying sun and cotton-thick heat on their tongues, music performed with an edge of humility. Aziraphale’s back faces them: a young woman, face calm, the soft skin of her eyelids rose-pink and hooded; an older gentleman, sweating profusely as he moves debris, smiling all the same; a girl with messy braids whistles, her tune converging and diverging with Aziraphale’s song, high and light and playing hard to get. Crowley hears their heartbeats in the gaps between notes, syncopated and pulsing, seduced by these celestial hands with a rough, human charm.

And then Aziraphale stops, suddenly, as if in panic or shock.

“Azira-”

“I don’t remember,” he says, voice flat as the piano before his interference, “the rest of the song.”

Their listeners resume their work, turning away as Crowley drifts closer. Aziraphale reaches up to close the piano’s lid.

“Don’t.” Crowley catches his sleeve, fingers curling around the cuff. “Play another.”

His voice catches, cracks slightly as the want seeps through, but he’s too caught up in the moment to be embarrassed. Aziraphale twists his hand just so, clasps Crowley’s like a promise, his pinky ring slight and cold against Crowley’s skin. He guides his hand down, back to the keys, brushes the backs of his knuckles gently like an encouragement. 

“ _You_ play _me_ something.”

Crowley does.

It’s the accompaniment to _The Swan_. Melancholic and almost sorrowful compared to Aziraphale’s lilting waltz. It feels empty and repetitive without the cello, without the swan gliding over the lake, bright wings like an angel’s. His fingers feel hollow, broken chords cavernous and yawning, echoed from the past. It doesn’t fit right into this new Beginning. Not here, in this fragrant summer, new life springing from the cracked pavement and blooming like hope.

Aziraphale starts to hum.

There it is, a lilac lullaby. Crowley has to force himself to keep going, finish the song as his hands tremble and his spine aches. Somewhere else, he is on his knees, hands clasped in a prayer he no longer thought he could endure, head tilted to the sky as if awaiting rain. He shuts his eyes.

The humming is low and intimate, unheard by their previous audience still roaming the square behind them. One final note, drawn out and hushed, as the piece comes to its end.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, bringing a hand up to rest on his shoulder.

Crowley can’t look at him.

“What did you play? I hadn’t heard it before.”

“ _Invitation to the Dance_ ,” Aziraphale says and squeezes, pinching the fabric of Crowley’s jacket. “Von Weber.”

Crowley smiles and closes the lid with a quiet click, finally meeting his gaze.

“Now then… what would you say to a drink?”


	2. 2.

**23rd April 1948**

Nearly two years later, Crowley finds himself chasing a scent through Berlin, a spicy aroma ripe with anger and the energy of youth. It’s a peculiar curiosity pulling him through the city streets, like the boiling over of something that’s been simmering quietly for so long. He turns a corner, moving from behind a drab grey building onto the busier Potsdamer Platz, where the yelling and chanting is loud and harmonic, and the scene opens up like a troupe on stage, luring him in with a thirst for knowledge and a hunger for the truth. 

He drinks in the shouting and shoving but there’s a righteousness there too, a sickly sweet gold that coats his tongue and tastes like spiced clementines. Hundreds of students, perhaps closer to thousands, almost writhing as they form a large mass, their cries muffled against each other, urging their way out of the crowd. Bellows like Jonah pleading from inside the whale, yet these shouts are demanding and sharp, promises to wield ribs like swords. A voice pipes up, curls soft in his head, someone posh but gentle: _a fish, Crowley, not a whale. Try to quote the holy scripture properly, dear._

Crowley growls, forcing the voice (and its accompanying lips and soft, soft smile) out of his mind. He pushes into the crowd, letting the heat and the desperation envelope him. This gasping and pain and barely concealed fury; this here, he knows and he loves. He lets the smoke of it all wrap around him, gets a feel for the richness of this power, the urge to tempt a growing itch under his skin.

And, just as before, a flash of chalk-white (milk-white, fresh and clean): his attention caught. He thinks of the voice, pressed up against his skull. _Speak of the dev-_ no. _Angel._

Aziraphale doesn’t look too out of place amongst the students, with his suit jacket unbuttoned and his tie loose ( _the bloody nerve of it, really_ , Crowley thinks and his eyes linger on the exposed skin, silver under a cloudy sky). Clad in a pale cream fabric, it’s easy for Crowley to keep sight of him and he slithers over to Aziraphale as he’s done so many times before.

“Hello.”

Aziraphale jumps, Crowley’s preternatural greeting striking through the din, like a localised lighting bolt aimed right at his eardrum. His hands fly up to cover his ears and he furrows his brows, glancing at Crowley with a pout.

“Need you be so dramatic?” 

“I’d hardly call saying _hello_ dramatic,” Crowley scoffs, but Aziraphale lowers his hands, folding them in front of himself as if he isn’t being jostled this way and that by the swarm of bodies around them. (It gives an excuse for Crowley to squeeze closer.)

Aziraphale seems to gravitate closer too, nearly tucking his head over Crowley’s shoulder as if divulging a secret. He grins and his eyes flicker across the crowd, gazing up at the Hotel Esplanade like a reassembled beacon of hope before them.

“This is a fight for justice, Crowley! Isn’t it marvellous?” Aziraphale hasn’t been this giddy in a while. “They’re from the nearby university, you know. Protesting against Soviet repression, against the persecution of their peers and teachers. Didn’t think it’d be your sort of thing.”

He looks back at Crowley, cheeks as red as apples, smile a little sheepish, and adds: “You know, what with the being a demon and all.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows.

“I could turn this protest into a riot in less than a second, angel.”

“Oh, you _wouldn’t!_ ”

“Alright, you got me there,” Crowley admits and Aziraphale softens and smiles. “You’ve gone and put your grubby fingerprints all over this anyway. I could try a temptation but I don’t think I’d capture many souls.” Crowley pauses and wrinkles his nose, annoyed by the truth he finds in his words. “I can taste the good spirit and decency leaking off these kids.” (He doesn’t mention that the taste isn’t all that unpleasant.)

Aziraphale wiggles delightedly in their limited space, pronouncing his work done with a _jolly good!_ and a pleased grin. Crowley follows his lead as Aziraphale extracts himself from the crowd, winding through the sea of people and emerging onto a side road. He looks back as Crowley pulls up behind him and they fall into step away from the protest, the frenzied yells growing quiet and then ceasing altogether; an angel and a demon left alone on the streets of Berlin.

They enjoy a companionable silence, their strolling reminiscent of walks through St. James’ and Crowley longs to take Aziraphale’s arm. Instead, he pauses as they pass through an alleyway, cool in the shadows and on cobblestones.

“Wait,” Crowley says and it’s almost a plea. “Just stop for a second, just here, okay?”

Aziraphale looks at him, calm concern on his face. Crowley fidgets. 

“Everything alright, my dear?”

“Yes, yes. I- uh- I got you something. That’s all.”

“Oh.”

Aziraphale is shocked, a little, but pleased all the same and Crowley can’t stand it anymore, just slips the orange out of his sleeve like those sleight of hand tricks that Aziraphale loves so dearly. But there’s not flourish or ‘ta da!’, no big show of it. He just takes Aziraphale’s hand and turns it over, presses the fruit into his palm, gently closes his fingers around it. He holds on a moment too long, hears Aziraphale shudder, rock forward slightly on his heels, can almost feel his breath against his neck-

Then Crowley’s pulling away, letting go, and for a moment he’s scared Aziraphale will drop the tangerine and he’ll have to watch it roll into the gutter and pretend to be in any way alright. 

“Where on Earth did you get this?” He asks, breathy, but clasping the fruit, two pale hands tight against his chest.

“America.”

“How?”

“I have my ways.”

And he’s not lying; when it comes to Aziraphale, he has ways beyond what generally constitutes the powers of a demon of his calibre. He doesn’t miracle up food anymore since Aziraphale claims _it just doesn’t taste the same_ but Crowley doubts reaching ever so slightly into the future (if one considers ‘ever so slightly into the future’ to be 25 years, which Crowley, an immortal being, does) and across the Atlantic (perhaps that is cheating a little) to obtain an orange for someone you love (but can’t exactly admit to out loud) is anything exceedingly spectacular.

Acknowledging he’s committed an act of kindness is unthinkable. No, it was simply a quick peek into the future. One of rebuilt cities and new music and billowing banners calling for equality and- oh look, there’s art too and sex and food and, and- war. There’s war and there’s death and there’s famine and pollution, thick and black and swollen in the air and water. 

And there’s a garden. No gates, no walls but a garden all the same, an orchard of oranges surrounding a small house, wild flowers growing through cracks in the driveway and the sweltering California heat pressing dry lips gently on wrinkled skin. A woman, old, tired, but content, picking the fruit with a self-indulgent smile. Crowley did not think she would mind if he took just one. So he pulled it fast, through the slip in time and into his pocket of Europe. In the past two years he and Aziraphale have only met a handful of times, both so busy with their tempting and blessing and, for Crowley, napping. He’s been holding out since their last encounter (a tea house on the west side of the city; they had argued for hours and eventually parted with flushed skin, both feeling lighter than air). He kept it supernaturally preserved for months, a plump little gift waiting in his jacket, just in case.

Now a segment slips between the lips of an angel, who sighs softly to himself and licks a bead of juice off the pad of his thumb. Crowley swallows as he watches Aziraphale do so too, Adam’s apple bobbing. He trembles.

Aziraphale offers up another segment, a thin translucent skin stretched over the flesh like rice paper or a delicate sheet of filo. Some sort of offering, a thank you that cannot be said aloud. Their fingers touch when Crowley accepts. _You’re welcome._ They chew together. They breathe in sync, even though they don’t need to. Share more than just a taste.

(Hours later, in the smooth darkness of night, Aziraphale will leave the peel on an old water heater. He’ll watch it dry and curl, stiffening as the oils evaporate. He’ll feel it at the back of his throat as the citrus lingers, hanging in the air. A reminder.

 _Thank you._ )


	3. 3.

**4th December 1948**

“Crowley?”

He’s outside, lighting up a smoke, when he hears his name, ringing clear as a bell. 

“Angel?”

And there Aziraphale is, once again, a cloud of warmth in the moonlight. It’s cold, and late, and the Titania-Palast rises up like Dracula’s castle, bold and tempting (albeit with newer, and uglier, architecture) behind him. Something lurks inside. Crowley’s never been the ideal demon, but a bit of lurking stirs something in him he can’t quite ignore. That’s why he’s here, has miracled up an invitation for himself and let curiosity once again get the better of him. A mere half hour ago his named appeared on a list somewhere, claiming him to be one of the most generous patrons of the new university.

Crowley huffs out a stream of smoke and eyes Aziraphale over his glasses, who stands and stares back. His puzzled frown morphs into his usual reluctant pleasure at their accidental meetings and he moves forward to take the cigarette from Crowley’s outstretched hand. He didn’t even notice himself reach out, his own arm betraying him. ( _Accursed hand, fall off!_ , he thinks. Marlowe knew a lot about the dangers of desire.)

“I’m not here on business,” he says, whilst the angel puts the filter between his lips. “Just in case you were wondering.” _So you don’t have to thwart me_ , he thinks, _so I can say we’re here together and not just mean literal proximity_.

“Neither am I,” Aziraphale replies and passes back the cigarette. 

They stand and share the smoke. It is not actually quiet; the Titania-Palast practically rumbles behind them, its guests filling it up with a belly-deep excitement. Yet there is an odd sense of peace, a shared silence like the shared cigarette. With so many years under their belts, so many moments in isolation from Above or Below, it is a good thing to share an hour or two with someone who will remember. To have an experience that will not be lost to the wind, even if that is to be with your hereditary enemy.

_But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back._

Crowley does not expect anything back. That does not make him holy.

“So what are you doing here? I mean, I know you’re all for books and educational shite but this isn’t a lecture proper, you know. They’re only opening the university; it’s just some silly ceremony.”

“I’m aware, dear boy. Do give me some credit.” Aziraphale shakes his head and the stub he was previously holding vanishes. An angel never litters. “I’ve actually paid in part for this event.”

Crowley splutters slightly, about to protest: _so we’ve been cancelling each other out again, but this time without realising? This time, not under orders?_ (It figures. They’ve become so accustomed to this dance that they perform even without music. Even with no audience.) A young man interrupts them before Crowley can voice his thoughts.

“Ah! Herr Crowley, Herr Fell!” The usher smiles under the white lights of the building, teeth glinting in the glow. “Please do take your seats. The ceremony is about to begin.”

They follow the man inside. Guests bustle through the foyer and into the theatre as other ushers guide the way and point students and academics alike to their seats. Crowley watches the glee rise in Aziraphale’s eyes, fresh on his cheeks, as he spies bespectacled men decked out in tweed, moustaches bouncing as they discuss literature, science, art, philosophy… Crowley, too, feels a spark behind his ribs. The usher leads them into the auditorium and they sit together, no questions asked.

Within minutes, the houselights dim as the last few stragglers find their places. A hush falls over the theatre, the last murmurs rising high to the ceiling, whispers falling gently to the floor. The stage entices: a plinth holds a radio hooked up to a large speaker and men sit, waiting for their turn to speak. Crowley has always found performances to be an odd thing, planned and scripted and choreographed for others’ entertainment, when in actuality every being - human or otherwise - is performing constantly. Performing for others’ or performing to themselves. Crowley performs for Hell, Aziraphale for Heaven. They perform together, learn the steps, waltz in the predictable 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3. All the world’s a stage.

The angel performs miracles and the demon performs temptations. It’s the way it has always been and the way it always will be.

And so he plays his part.

When the first speaker rises, Aziraphale leans so far forward in his seat that Crowley fears he may fall off the edge. In fact, Crowley reaches out a hand (this reaching, always reaching), gently tugs on the elbow of his jacket, pulls the angel back down (back towards him). Aziraphale shuffles subconsciously, enraptured by words that Crowley cannot focus on, because, as he settles again, Aziraphale places a hand on Crowley’s knee. 

The radio squeals from its pedestal. Crowley stills, stares straight ahead. Aziraphale’s gaze falls hot on him for a moment but Crowley doesn’t flinch, just waits for him to turn back to the stage. A few seconds later, he does.

The man who first spoke introduces the static of the radio as Friedrich Meinecke.

It’s surreal, to know the truth, know the real meaning interwoven between the bow of an upper lip and the flick of a tongue, yet still be in awe of the lie that cloaks it. The fuzz that the radio emits is not a man but the notion almost causes Crowley to laugh, to disrupt the speechless anticipation of the audience, disrupt Aziraphale and the hand on his knee.

His imagination will probably be his downfall.

The static becomes words, words that are, in this moment, all Crowley knows of the man. Yes, hearsay and articles and the lot have informed him of the historian, but it is another thing to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Perhaps the first speaker was not wrong. This, here, is Friedrich Meinecke. Has Crowley ever met the man? No. Then who is he to judge?

"The pursuit of truth and freedom has by no means been extinguished. Therefore there is no thought of an immediate struggle between the two universities. Our fight is not to fight against each other, but to compete with each other!"

In Crowley’s books, they’re practically the same thing. 

The rest of his address flies over Crowley’s head as Aziraphale shifts again, sinking slightly into the cushioned seat. He angles himself towards Crowley but his head stays facing forward, hand a persistent weight on his knee. When Meinecke closes his address, Aziraphale turns his head too, the conscious catching up with the subconscious, and projects a beaming smile in his direction. Crowley feels more than a little bit dead. He swallows down the mewling thing caught in his throat and speaks directly into the angel’s ear over the noise.

“He’s a right tosser, you know. Sympathised with the Nazis, at least at the beginning. Still doesn’t like the Jews.”

Aziraphale ducks his head, a little abashed, curls tickling the side of Crowley’s face.

“Yes, and all this spiel about watching over these students like a grandfather… He’ll be dead within a decade, my dear.”

There is a cold quality to his voice but something shines in his eyes, a glorious tincture of hope and mirth, just the right shade of lovely. He turns back and surveys the crowd. Crowley turns too, watches the young people waiting, unknowingly shaping the future as they sit. The disembodied voice slowly crackles out; the man himself disintegrating, fading into history.

Other speakers rise and speak and sit, there’s a routine to it, but Aziraphale’s hand stays settled, lifting to politely applaud for each speaker, then finding its place back on his knee. Crowley’s brain short-circuits and it’s no time at all until they are once again in amongst a bustle of students, flooding out of the auditorium and into the foyer and then back into the night. Yet Crowley detects less of that burning urgency in the air; instead, the atmosphere is one of triumph. Aziraphale pulls gently on Crowley’s sleeve to guide him down the road and Crowley finds himself feeling triumphant too.

“How does coffee sound?”

“Bloody brilliant.” _Especially when you say it like that. When it’s an invitation._

They find themselves in a quiet café. It’s grey and there’s only a few tables and the light flickers slightly but the young woman behind the counter calls a gentle _Hallo!_ and pours them two mugs without them needing to ask. They settle themselves by the window and Aziraphale watches some people across the street through the window, enamoured like he’s surveying a diorama of cold. Cold air, cold steel lampposts, cold concrete and cold people; all bustled up together, desperately trying to rid themselves of the cold, wrapping themselves in grey coats and fighting desperately against the ice that seeps into the marrow of their bones.

“There’s so much desperation these days,” Crowley says, meaning these days to be the last half-century. “I can feel it.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale sips his coffee. They’ve both taken theirs black. Crowley thinks he can taste a hint of citrus but then banishes the thought.

“So, a benefactor then?”

“I rather think it important in these times to encourage deeper thought and critical analysis. One does not wish for a repeat of- ah, well.” Aziraphale peers down at the contents of his mug, wisps of steam causing him to blink repeatedly. “Everything, I suppose.”

Crowley blinks back, behind his sunglasses. “On this we seem to agree.” This careful dance. Don’t drift out of step.

“It appears we do,” Aziraphale replies. They smile at each other.

“Well, then, uh… how’re you getting on then? In the East, I mean?” Crowley doesn’t expect much of an honest answer but he’s been eyeing the cut of Aziraphale’s waistcoat all evening and silently lamenting his slightly slimmer figure. He watches the thick fingers curled around the white mug, watches the angel raise it to his lips and hold it there for a moment, eyes closed, savouring the heat. 

“Same as ever, really.” He lowers the mug to the table, stares into it as if searching for answers. Reading the coffee grounds like tea leaves. “There’s- there’s suffering, Crowley. A lot of it. It’s why I’ve been sent there, you see; room for the Lord’s work. It’s very much community based and I’ve trying to work from the ground up, really connect with the people.”

He hesitates. Crowley waits.

“It’s hard,” he says, “but it’s rewarding.”

Crowley grins. 

“Cheers to that,” he says and clinks their mugs.

“Really? I recall you saying how your side of the city was, and I quote, _an absolute blast_. That they practically wore their damnation with pride. Like badges. Or did you say brooches?” A flutter of eyelashes, a smug little smile. “Yet now you seem to be having second thoughts. How peculiar.”

“Oi. I don’t remember saying that.”

“You don’t? It was when we discovered that darling teahouse; you can’t have forgotten.”

“Ngk.” Crowley remembers the pot of Lady Grey of a finer quality than had previously existed in the backroom, the soft cushions and the flaky strudel, buttery and sweet, that suited the angel far more than the building block life across the way. “I remember now.”

“Well? What’s changed?”

Crowley considers. How does he say _duty calls_ which means _even though I’m so close, you’re still so far_ and how does he say _sometimes I imagine I see you across the street and in doing so damn any young maiden in my vicinity just because I can’t put a stopper on my own blessed emotions?_ The answer is that he can’t.

“It’s the blockade. I mean, nobody’s actually starving or whatever but it’s stressful.” He fiddles with his glasses, scratches at the back of his neck, head tilted forward. “To be honest, it’s the planes. Makes me miss the Bentley. Makes me miss flying.” Oh, and there’s the confessional.

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.”

They drink their coffee in unison.

“I think I’m going to fly a plane.” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes and it’s with fond exasperation and Crowley’s heart swells and threatens to jump out his throat and into Aziraphale’s mug as the angel starts to list the possible dangers associated with piloting a large metal machine that insists on crossing the Iron Curtain.

When they finish their drinks and pay their bill - Aziraphale insists on tipping an amount far beyond reason; Crowley submits, insisting this encourages greed - they step out into the cold, cold, cold and head out into the city.

They walk amiably, in a vague direction that could imply the intention of returning to their separate lodgings, that at any point they shall part and cease this chance encounter. Aziraphale shivers and moves closer, skin silver in the moonlight. Without thinking, Crowley lays a hand on Aziraphale’s arm and they move as one, ducking into an alley. (This again, tucked away, quiet and dark and separate from the cold, cold world.) Crowley removes his scarf - expensive, chic, warm - and gently loops it around Aziraphale’s neck. Not a word or a breath or a murmur between them. (Perhaps none required.) Aziraphale reaches up to adjust the collar of Crowley’s coat. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Crowley dimly notes that an onlooker would assume that were either entering or disengaging from some sort of embrace. Crowley drops his arms. Aziraphale’s hands linger, smoothing the fabric of the jacket over his heart. Crowley wonders if he has noticed it’s stopped beating. When he finally pulls back, he lowers his hands slowly, almost hesitantly, and doesn’t remove his gaze from Crowley’s collar. The scarf is a dark navy wool, a smudge against the pleasant pale of Aziraphale’s attire, and yet he looks warm, looks comfortable even, standing there in the dark with the dark smudge of a demon wrapped around his neck. A marker in the most insidious of ways. He tilts his head down, curls falling forward, nose pressed into the wool, then trots away, leaving Crowley stunned for a moment, before pausing, seeming to gather up some courage.

“Come on, Crowley,” he says, turning around with kind eyes, an invitation once more. _Take a spin. Enjoy the dance._ (What has gotten into him?) “I hear night time walks this side of the Rhine are lovely.” He holds out an arm expectantly.

What is there to do? Crowley reaches out and takes it.


	4. The Rest

**April 1949**

“Last one,” he says and hefts the box over as two men across the tarmac shut and secure the plane’s open cargo bay. 

“With the rest then?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just flour, I think.” Crowley unclasps the chin-strap of his hat and rolls his neck. “That or more potatoes.”

The man nods, solemn with dark hair and dark eyes. He walks away, over to where the rest of the supplies are being sorted for later distribution. Crowley stands and surveys the scene.

Someone calls across the tarmac and he turns to see his angel, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, sleeves up to his elbows, no bow tie, top two buttons undone, hair a halo of curls in the sunlight, hefting a large box like it weighs less than a feather. Crowley feels something twist inside him and gives a little wave. Aziraphale carries the box over to where they are being organised for distribution and then walks over to where Crowley is standing and staring like a lemon. They talk and Aziraphale teases his pilot uniform but comments that it’s quite dashing; Crowley blushes to his roots and thanks Go- Sat- somebody, anybody, that his cap and goggles obscure half his face. Include a comment about how his goggles are like sunglasses too. 

Aziraphale mentions missing flying and Crowley offers to teach him and Aziraphale stares at him for just a second too long before relenting. Crowley ducks beneath the nose of the plane and snakes behind the aircraft, Aziraphale following but protesting lightly.

(‘Crowley! Oh, what if someone sees?’

‘Lighten up, will you? Humans never notice a damn thing.’) 

Once they’re hidden from sight Crowley removes his goggles and hat and harness and transfers each item to Aziraphale. Neither mention that he could miracle his own, better fitting outfit in an instant, but Crowley does notice the items alter shape slightly to fit Aziraphale. When he removes his aviator hat his red hair tumbles to his shoulders and Aziraphale pauses in clipping himself into the harness eyes wide and unblinking.

(‘Your hair.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve… let it grow out.’

‘Yes.’)

(Flashback to Crowley cutting tar out of his hair with what seems like rusty garden shears, alone in hell for the first time as his wings smoulder and the acrid stench turns his stomach. It reminded him of God and so he let it grow out, kept it for so long, as he pined for her divine love, but when he watched Jesus, her own son, bleed from a crown of thorns, he had chopped it all off again. And he had kept it short till just last month when he had looked in the mirror and thought about the walk down the Rhine and he pines for a heavenly love of a different sort.)

Aziraphale takes the hat from Crowley and fits it snug over his head. He lets Crowley pull the goggles over his eyes and adjust the strap. 

Crowley then waves a hand over the lenses to clear them of their dark quality and he sees blue burning back at him, fire and ice and air all trapped and whirling behind thin glass. Crowley smiles, awkwardly, and gestures, bowing, as he leaves Aziraphale to haul himself into the cockpit. His faces forms a smirk as the angel lets out a huff and then Crowley is pulling himself up after him, the cockpit making room with less than a thought. (And if there is still only one seat and a small space behind it for Crowley to cram himself, limbs spilling over onto Aziraphale’s shoulders and hands brushing hands and gesturing to buttons and dials as his elbows catch the angel in his torso lightly then who’s to say anything about it?). Crowley doesn’t really need to explain the methods of flight, nor is he capable, since he doesn’t actually know how to fly the thing. He just expects it to fly so it does. He says so to Aziraphale. 

(“Just like with wings.”

“But those wings are mine. This plane is not.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Right now this plane is simply an extension of yourself. Stretch out, angel; and just fucking fly.”)

And his wings spread out, filling the cockpit and curling round, obscuring Crowley's view. Aziraphale has got them off the ground and Crowley manages to jam his head between one white wing and Aziraphale’s head and he watches blue map out before them.

“You brilliant bastard,” he breathes, absolutely enthralled. “You’re fucking doing it.”

As they soar up and up through the clouds, Crowley glances to his right to see Aziraphale’s eyes closed but a small smile on his face as he knows what he’s doing. And this is heaven, he thinks, if there ever was one like the humans believed. Paradise, eternal glory, unfathomable riches painted in that lovely smile, that calm expression, delicate eyelids displayed behind the glass of Crowley’s own goggles.

* * *

**17th June 1953**

In 1951, Crowley moves to East Berlin and Aziraphale moves to the West. They see each other occasionally, meeting up for coffee and at kitschy little cafes as Aziraphale gets back into the food scene. Scene starts with a little summary of this and then establishing that, now, Crowley was on his way to meet Aziraphale when he got caught up in a protest herded to Stalinallee.

He smells the anger thick on the air again and is almost panicked by it as he tastes a musty stale apathy underneath, the quietly contained hatred of soldiers, the gunpowder tang of metal and tires. But then there’s that angelic hint and he weaves through the crowd to where Aziraphale lines etched onto his face in fury as he hurls rocks at the statue of Stalin, sharing his light on a wavelength unknown to humans with those surrounding him. Aziraphale turns before Crowley approaches him and hurries over.

(‘Crowley! Oh, Crowley!’

‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘Honestly Crowley, what do you think?’

‘I’ve been napping all week! Sorry I didn’t get the bloody memo.’

‘These people have had enough; forced to work like slaves, slowly succumbing to hunger and exhaustion… it’s not right.’

‘Of course not,’ Crowley agrees, his mind and mouth disconnected as reflex takes over, finding himself saying anything to assuage the angel’s upset. ‘But can’t you feel it? People are coming and it’s going to get ugly.’)

Aziraphale insists they stay and help and they wait, listening amongst the shouting and stomping for a telltale sign of an army. A tank shows up shortly after and the crowds are scattered. There are soldiers and Crowley nearly chokes on the stark emptiness of it, their eyes and faces obscured by the shotguns they hold, poised and ready as if measuring their distance from holy. Crowley fears their lack of humanity, wondering if that is how people see him, eyes hidden, secrets kept safe behind dark glass. He is trying to protect himself, from the judgement of humans, and protect Aziraphale from the truth of his infatuation. These soldiers act with self-preservation, though an ounce of terrifying glee springs up in a few more despicable individuals. Crowley aches with it, his demon senses in tune with the wrath and perverse hunger. They aren’t exactly mowing down the protesters but screams are elicited from the dispersing crowds as a couple of shots ring out. Crowley is brought out of his panic by a hand, gentle on his arm.

(‘Crowley.’

‘Ngk.’

‘Crowley, please.’ Aziraphale’s voice cracks a little and Crowley immediately snaps out of it, turning towards him and suddenly being brought face to face with a young man’s pained grimace. ‘He’s been shot.’)

The guy grunts as Crowley wordlessly pulls one arm around his shoulder and together they support him back to Crowley’s apartment building. He’s dazed and out of it but they haul him up the stairs and settle him onto the linoleum of Crowley’s kitchenette as Aziraphale hurriedly miracles up supplies and digs a bullet out of his leg, sewing it up and bandaging it. Crowley is reminded of Aziraphale helping survivors of the Blitz, and before that as a stretcher bearer in WWI. Crowley jokes about Aziraphale being the man’s guardian angel.

Aziraphale decides to stay to keep watch over the young man as he naps, recovering quickly from his wound with a touch of angelic influence. They talk quietly, sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall as the young man sleeps in Crowley’s bed. The room is small with a communal bathroom down the hall (not that Crowley needs to use it) and a small kitchenette with no oven and minimal groceries. They talk of London and what they miss - Aziraphale, his book, and Crowley, his Bentley.

When the young man wakes up, Aziraphale hurries over to ensure he is okay. He blinks warily unsure of his surroundings and gasps in Aziraphale’s presence.

(‘Did I…? Am I dead?’

‘Oh no, dear boy, you are quite soundly alive.’

‘But… you must be an angel…’)

Crowley walks over, laughing and snapping his fingers, as the young man’s face goes still. Crowley stops laughing abruptly as he sees the blank face of the young man, eyes empty. But Aziraphale simply huffs and reaches out to gently close his eyes, touch ever so gentle as he taps the man’s forehead.

‘In a moment, you shall awake and go home safely to your family. You will have no scar and neither you nor any of your relatives will remember the bullet. You simply got lost in the crowd. You are okay.’ And then, fingertips still resting feather-light on skin, his eyes flicker to Crowley’s, stare honing in as if the glasses aren’t there and he reaches out his other hand to press against Crowley’s. ‘You will be okay.’ He raises the hand to his lips, presses two soft kisses against his knuckles. He drops his hand from the gentleman’s forehead but does not let go of Crowley’s.

The young man awakens and heads out the door without a glance in their direction. Aziraphale holds Crowley’s gaze just a moment longer, then squeezes his hand and lets go, trotting off after his patient without another word.

* * *

**Early July 1956**

The scene opens with Crowley waiting outside Aziraphale’s apartment building, watching a young couple across the road share a cigarette. A door opens and closes behind him and Crowley turns to see Aziraphale smiling shyly, wearing a loose, single-breasted cream flannel suit with his staple tartan bow-tie. The fabric is soft and clean, in stark comparison with Crowley’s slim Italian fit in a dark charcoal grey. 

(‘Nice, uh- nice suit, angel.’

‘I could say the same for you,’ Aziraphale says, reaching out to toy with one of the buttons at Crowley’s middle. ‘Quite dashing.’

‘Only quite?’ Crowley attempts a smirk but there’s something eating away at his heart, tearing the muscle apart piece by piece and licking the arteries clean.

‘Come along now, Crowley. We don’t want to miss out on any of the fun!’)

He offers his arm and Crowley takes it, sidling up beside him. They pass the young couple, standing close, and Crowley has half a mind to drop Aziraphale’s arm but the couple are so wrapped up in each other, heads tilted together, lightly teasing, that they don’t even notice them pass. Crowley turns to Aziraphale to make a snide comment on young love, just to piss the angel off and see the heat rise in his cheeks, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have noticed them, instead staring at where Crowley’s hand is curled around the warm fabric of his cuff.

When they arrive at the venue, large crowds have formed, held back by barriers as footmen usher celebrities onto a lush red carpet. Crowley pulls away slightly, moving behind Aziraphale so they can weave through the crowd, but Aziraphale doesn’t let go, instead smoothly transitioning into holding Crowley’s hand. The point of contact is warm and dry in the summer evening air.

Once they emerge from the crowd, anonymity gone, Aziraphale drops his hand. He watches Aziraphale absentmindedly clench and unclench his fist, as if lacking something. Crowley shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. With a tad of angelic interference, they avoid the cameras and saunter into the venue. An usher is leading people through some dark double doors and Aziraphale’s face lights up, dragging Crowley to a screening of Richard III (1955). The theatre is hushed and dark, red velvet seats and dark wood. This film is all about the words; Aziraphale quotes along, Crowley quite likes the drama of it all but probably dozes off halfway through. By the time the film is over, Crowley is shaken awake and they filter out, chatting quietly: Aziraphale misses the Globe, despairs over adaptations.

(‘It just doesn’t feel quite as personal. Mr Olivier can stare into the camera all he wants but I know he’ll never see me.’)

They grab a couple of glasses of champagne when they leave, milling about in the VIP area and watching the celebrities’ faux-niceties. Crowley comments on fame and the delightful arrogance in the air.

(‘Well you’d know all about that, you sly thing.’

‘Unlike them I actually have cause to be vain.’ Aziraphale laughs tipsily as Crowley gestures to the length of his body with a smirk.) 

Aziraphale seems quite out of popular culture but offers to make himself scarce for a moment if Crowley wants to go toy with the hottest names in film at the moment.

(‘That’d certainly get you a commendation from Below, I suspect’.)

Crowley hadn’t even thought about that.

(‘It’s alright, angel,’ he says, in a moment of unrestrained softness. ‘I’m enjoying spending the night with you.’)

Aziraphale catches his eye, mouth parting a little in surprise before he quickly turns to grab another two champagne flutes off a passing server. He passes one to Crowley. Alarm bells go off in Crowley’s head and he drains the glass, tilting his head back but keeping his gaze lowered to eye Aziraphale’s reaction behind his glasses. The angel watches the pillar of Crowley’s throat, the strong line of his jaw, before hurriedly emptying his own glass in one swallow. Crowley nearly chokes on the last of his drink, golden bubbles fizzle on his tongue as something else wreaks havoc behind his ribs. He’s getting drunker by the second and he’s not really sure how to handle whatever bloody revelation he seems to be heading towards. He lost for words for a moment, but then everyone seems to be leaving the bar area, heading back towards one of the screening theatres. Aziraphale automatically follows the crowd, joining the queue before being informed what the screening is.

(‘You can take the angel out of England…’ Crowley hisses into his ear, coming up behind him and maneuvering himself into the line with a hand on Aziraphale’s elbow.

‘Crowley…’ Aziraphale says, voice low, and oh, so there is something new here. Crowley doesn’t let go of the angel’s sleeve.)

They settle into their seats for an Invitation to the Dance. It’s the opposite of Richard III: garish colours and dancing and all things superficial. Crowley bloody loves it. Aziraphale frowns throughout half the film and Crowley laughs uproariously, still half-drunk as he deliriously processes whatever’s happening between him and the being to his right whilst also gleefully taking in the disdain evident on every film snob’s face in the theatre.

After the film ends, Aziraphale huffs as they leave.

(‘I can’t fault the animation but it certainly lacked any real substance.’).

They emerge into the foyer and Crowley excuses himself to the loo, Aziraphale politely ignoring the fact that he technically doesn’t need to go and declaring himself on a mission to find more alcohol. Crowley walks down a hall, past a group of men smoking and laughing loudly. A woman in a slinky black dress with an elegant diamond necklace and dainty white gloves pulled up to her elbows eyes him with a coy smile but Crowley simply shoulders past her, rounding the corner and pushing open the door to the bathroom. There’s no-one else there - whether he subconsciously willed it that way or it was deserted before his arrival he isn’t sure - and he stands in front of the sink, watching his pale face in the mirror. The lights are low, flickering sconces on the walls casting his shadow into a thin, mangled copy of himself: dark and empty, defined only by the absence of light. He takes off his glasses and sets them on the marble counter. The figure behind and below him shifts, clumsy and cruel. 

He always assumed that was how Aziraphale saw him, like some rude version of Plato’s allegory of the cave, Heaven shielding the truth from his view and painting a picture of their own with a heavenly glow born from lies. But Aziraphale’s been turning his back on all that for quite some time and now it seems he’s crawling out the cave, into an unknown that seems to nevertheless involve Crowley. Aziraphale has never really needed Heaven’s light; stationed on Earth, his own has grown brighter, kinder too and always divine. In that light, he sees Crowley and he doesn’t see a lying snake or someone wholly irredeemable, he sees something to be wanted. Someone to be desired. Crowley lets out a breath, strides over to the nearest stall and vomits directly into the bowl.

He falls down to his knees as if in prayer, hands up and pressed against the sides of the cubicle to steady himself. A sharp pain stirs inside him and there’s heat pressing up against his throat, heat spreading to his temples and leaking out his unshielded eyes. He vomits again, all liquid heat, and rises. The toilet flushes behind him as he heads over to the sink, washing his hands and rinsing out his mouth. It’s the ritual of it that calms him, never mind the fact that he could miracle the acid from his tongue, and he wets his face, running cold fingers over his eyelids and up into his hair.

He stares at himself in the mirror, eyes yellow as bile.

“What the fuck.”

* * *

Scene reopens with the boys seated in preparation for the awards ceremony. Crowley had found Aziraphale by the bar, sampling a few different wines, and Crowley faked a grin and Aziraphale’s eyes had looked pained for just a moment before he offered up an equally false smile and they headed to the main theatre. They’re quiet now, listening to the announcements and applauding politely. Aziraphale claps a bit more enthusiastically when Richard III wins a Silver Bear and Crowley loves the ruckus when Invitation to the Dance wins the Golden Bear for Best Film.

(‘Oh that must’ve been your doing! Shunting Shakespeare to second place just to spite me!’ 

‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Film critics are awful, you know this! They’ve all been reserved the best seats Downstairs, if you know what I mean.’

‘Eternal torture?’

‘Yup,’ he says, popping the ‘p’. Aziraphale sighs.)

They settle into the teasing again and Crowley thinks, this, this I can deal with. When the ceremony ends and the people around start to get up and wander, chattering amongst themselves, heading towards the major after party, Aziraphale stands and offers Crowley his hand. Crowley takes it and the air ripples around them, whatever familiarity they had salvaged with the playful taunting dissipates and suddenly Aziraphale’s pulling them out the theatre, out into the foyer and past the bar and down a corridor. He leads him to a slight alcove and Crowley hastily miracles any residue from his mouth (just in case, he mentally scolds himself, don’t get your hopes up, you utter idiot), and then Aziraphale’s pressing him up against the wall and cradling his face in his hands and oh so gently removing his glasses.

He drops them onto the carpet and reaches up his hand steady himself on Crowley’s shoulder. There’s silence, just for a second, a moment of ‘yes, this is really happening’, a moment to say ‘this is not some foolish impulse; I have made my mind up. Have you?’

Crowley surges forward and there’s that sickly heat again, bursting and bleeding and thrumming in his skin. Aziraphale responds keenly, echoing heat with his lips and his tongue, one hand in Crowley’s hair and one hand flat against his jaw. A loud laugh brings them back to reality and Aziraphale steps away slightly, chest rising and falling between them. He still has one hand on the side of Crowley’s face and he lets it drop to his chest, fiddling with the buttons on Crowley’s jacket. Crowley reaches up and squeezes his fingers, stepping away from the wall and then letting go to stoop down and pick up his glasses. 

‘Do you-’ Crowley stops and looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him, flannel suit jacket open and bow-tie half undone, blue eyes swimming under hooded lids. He’s never looked more like an angel and, with his mouth slightly parted, he’s never looked more ready to sin. ‘Do you want to come back to mine?’

Aziraphale nods and smiles.

* * *

The next morning Crowley wakes up in his East Berlin flat to a pleasant ache in his legs and a note on the pillow beside his head.

(‘I’m sorry, my love. I promise it’s not for lack of wanting.’)

He searches the city for a week before retiring to bed.

* * *

**13 August 1961**

Crowley wakes up when the apartment building is up in arms as people hurry to the west side to escape East Berlin. He stumbles, shocked, doesn’t know what’s going on, leaves the house, wanders around as he sees people shouting and armed guards. And then he spots Aziraphale, staring up at his apartment building half in shock and half in awe. He has removed his hat and is holding it against his chest, cradling it to him like a child. And Crowley calls out but the cacophony around him swallows the noise and Crowley forces himself past screaming mothers and yelling men and something that sounds like gunfire and back through the building, up the stairs and to a window where he catches Aziraphale’s eye, Aziraphale who looks heavenly and ghoulish in the fractured light, summer air like a fire between them as he throws the window open and he chases it, chases him.

Hears gasps as he stumbles out the window, followed by soldiers that he renders useless with a simple flick of his hand and then he diverts all attention from him as he hits the pavement. Bones crunch and pain blossoms between his ribs but he miracles the pain away, sets his bones, fuelled by something or other, he isn’t sure. He runs the streets he knew so well only five years prior, now cut through the middle by a ramshackle barrier of barbed wire. He thinks of the crowds at Berlinale and how he sought out Aziraphale and his smile upon finding him and curling his fingers in his hair and heat of that night, the sick pleasure and gorgeous shame.

No one is waiting for him on the other side.

* * *

**1964, Interlude**

A phone call. Crowley is staying in a hotel in West Berlin, asleep when the phone rings.

(‘You’ve reached Antony-’

‘Crowley.’

Pause.

‘‘Ziraphale?’)

Aziraphale’s gone back to London. He tells Crowley that the book shop’s back up and running. Crowley says he’s pleased for him. The conversation is awkward, stilted, too formal. 

(‘No quiet in Soho, but I find my peace. It’s lovely to see all the books again; I’ve missed getting lost amongst the shelves for a week or so, just me and the words and the wine.’

Then why’d you call? Crowley thinks bitterly. To hold it over me? To remind me what I don’t have? You and your crows-feet and your curls and your eyes shining with disapproval and relentless mirth? ‘Why’d you call me?’

Pause.

‘Does one need a reason to call an old friend?’

‘Is that what I am to you? An old friend?’

‘I don’t seem to recall us only ever conversing with questions…’ Aziraphale trails off, withholding an answer.)

Eventually, amongst all the damn repression and unspoken pining, Aziraphale invites Crowley back to London.

(‘Don’t be a stranger, Crowley.’

Crowley takes a moment before he replies.

‘I love you.’

Aziraphale sighs. ‘I’ll see you soon.’)

When Aziraphale eventually hangs up, Crowley holds the receiver to his ear and listens to the tone for a while. He packs a bag with the little belongings he has, tucking a small piece of paper into the lining for safe keeping.

* * *

**November 1989**

Scene opens with Aziraphale and Crowley back in the bookshop. Drinking and teasing but there is a gap between them? Crowley pines, Aziraphale is flushed and avoids his eyes. The radio hums quietly in the background.

Suddenly, breaking news of the fall of the wall. The two are immediately brought back to reality, Aziraphale urges Crowley to sober up and he does so as Aziraphale leans over to turn up the volume. The conversation on the radio between two presenters talks about what this means for the future of Germany. Re-unification? Family and friends celebrate, joining together. Emphasis on now it is free will that plays the largest point: we do not know whether people will stay or leave East Berlin, but now they have a CHOICE. Governments bend to the will of the people.

There is a moment of quiet as the radio crackles, the dial spinning till the sound cuts off and then Aziraphale gets up from his armchair just as Crowley rises from the sofa. They meet in the middle and Aziraphale reaches up, takes Crowley’s face in his hands and, without any further nonsense, kisses him. The next day, two beings arrive in Berlin. Four arms with four hands return to the city, unearthing a sentimental history unknown to humanity. Palms that hold the shadows of alleys. Fingertips familiar with the bittersweetness of 19th century melodies, licked clean of juice that swells with a tang. These hands carved with lies and fitted with promises meet concrete in the centre of the city, concrete that cowers and crumbles as celebration rings out around them.

Tomorrow, a large section of the wall will appear in the bookshop in Soho, unrecognisable and heavy like the thick weight of an unused tongue. An angel will use it as a doorstop for approximately four and a half minutes and a demon will watch with appreciation as the angel hefts it up and into the back room, letting the door swing shut before he takes the demon’s hand with a smile. On Sunday it will rain and, as the country promises to remember, they will enter the world beyond the wall once again.

**Author's Note:**

> And to the Good Omens fandom, for all the joy you gave me and how much you helped me develop my writing:
> 
> _Thank you!_


End file.
